


Not Made For Love

by rubrikate



Category: Metro 2033 - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Partyom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubrikate/pseuds/rubrikate
Summary: Exploration of Pavel and Artyom through a bit of a different lens.





	1. A Book and a Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bad at summaries.

_Moscow Metro, 2020_

_The Red Line_

            “Night” had fallen in the station, lights had been dimmed and noise restrictions put in place. Most people were in their tents and their small apartments, on their way to sleep by now. The station was quiet, the only sounds that could be heard were the gentle sounds of breathing, some hushed voices, and the distant, though constant, strolling of patrol men in the tunnel. At the far end of the station a small, white light flickered on in a tent. A quick shuffling of blankets could be heard, the fabric rustling. A young boy was pulling his covers over his head, reading by a flash light late into the night. His Father sleeping beside him on a cot, snoring loudly, albeit, contentedly.

            The small amount of light was just enough to see the pages. Just enough to make out sentence by sentence what the story was. His finger following along on the page, just under the string of words. He only had so many pages, it should have been more, but those few pages were all he had. They were in a poor order, it was hard to piece it together. Some pages had numbers, but some didn’t. It was a puzzle of sorts, but it was surely worth it. When he’d pieced the story together, as much as he could, he’d begun reading it. It was addicting. He couldn’t stop looking at it. He couldn’t stop turning page after page. He loved everything about it, everything from the story to the way the pages felt between his small, dirty fingers. He loved every sentence he came across. All the characters jumped off the page as he read. He knew he shouldn’t have it, he knew if his Father found it, he’d be in trouble. But it was a risk he was willing to take.

            He always read a little bit more every night, and when he was finished, he would tuck the holy manuscript away, under his cot. He kept it sandwiched between two small boxes. He knew he had to hold onto it, somehow, someway. He hadn’t ever read anything as good as this, and surely, the books and papers they were taught in school weren’t even close to being this engaging. He longed to be able to find a full copy of the book, to be able to read it from cover to glorious cover, without having to wonder if he was missing something, without it being confusing at all, for it to make complete sense.

           But no, after having lived in the Metro for eight years he knew that would never happen. Not unless he could go up on the surface, go to the Great Library, and _maybe_ find a copy there. No, that would never happen. It was much too dangerous to ever venture there. He knew that in his heart or hearts. So this beaten up, rag tag, improvised copy was all he had and he was determined to make it last. He thumbed the page, turning it one more time. He knew where the story was going now, almost word for word, after all he’d read it enough times. He might as well have committed it to memory. His eyes widen as he went along, the light from the flash light bouncing around on the page as he went. Trying to hold the light, the book, and turn pages at the same time, while also trying to listen to his Father’s snores, was a challenge. His lips parted before he spoke, his finger brushing over the text as he went, and the boy found himself whispering out his favorite characters name quietly into the unending darkness of the Metro, “ _Athos_.”


	2. Bartering for Passage

_Moscow Metro, 2034_

_VDNKh Station_

            “I hate this tunnel,” one of the soldiers whispered under his breath. His companion nodded silently, adjusting his equipment on his back. They both stared ahead of themselves, their gazes falling on their Commanders back as he argued with the station guard.

            “I don’t see the problem; your station needs business and we’re willing to conduct some here before going on our way.” He was saying calmly, his hands moving as he spoke, his voice was smooth. The guard wasn’t swayed.

            “You’re a Red.” He gestured to the Commanders passport vaguely, only to fold his arms in front of his chest. The Commander shrugged, a smirk spread across his face.

            “Does that matter? Look, look, look, we just need to get through your station. That’s it.” He held his hands up, as if surrendering. He then lowered his voice, leaning in towards the guard slightly, “And, maybe, I’d be willing to compensate you for letting us through unhindered, yeah?” The Commander jingled the pouch of ammunition he had in his pocket. The guard looked down at the sound, then back up at the Commander. He sighed.

            “Follow me,” The guard said, his voice low. The Commander followed behind the guard slowly, leaving the other two waiting at the gate. They stood silently, exchanging nervous glances with the station guards milling about in the tunnel. They were outnumbered, and should this not work, they’d be shot and promptly disposed of. They were both holding their weapons tightly, keeping their fingers just off the triggers.

            They waited and waited. Time seemed to creep by slowly, tightly.

            “Come on, let’s go,” the Commander finally came back into view. He gestured to the two soldiers to follow him. They nodded, putting their weapons away, a feeling of relief washing over them. All that tense waiting now gone. The Commander nodded to the station guard and led the way into Exhibition.

            “There’s a Metro life lesson for you two,” the Commander said over his shoulder, “always carry more ammunition then you think you’ll need, yeah?” He smirked. They both nodded in agreement and followed along behind him in silence. The Commander walked past stands and booths, sometimes stopping to talk and browse their wares. The two men with him stood idly behind him, neither saying anything, neither buying anything, simply standing and waiting. Beginning to look, and feel, more like body guards then soldiers at this point. The Commander made idle conversation with the people as he went. He asked for directions to wherever there was food and soon found a place to sleep for the night.

            The station was beginning to shut down for the evening. The lights dimming and people scattering to their respective homes. The foot traffic was quietening and the shops were closing their doors, the sounds of slamming metal gates were echoing across the dirty marble floor of the station. The Commander had acquired a place for them to sleep and something to eat. The food in Exhibition was alright, they didn’t eat rats like so many other stations, but instead there was actual pork. They headed to their rented tent for the evening and the Commander bartered with the man on the platform. The other two stood idly behind him, waiting, as they had this whole time. One elbowed the other quietly, “You think we’ll reach the garden by tomorrow?” The other nodded.

           “I don’t see why not, the Commander said its only one stop to the North on this line.” He gestured to the tunnel with his head, jerking back towards the way they had come. They both nodded in agreement and went back to their silence; glad to have an end to their journey in sight.

           “We sleep here,” the Commander gestured to the tent erected on the platform, “no luxury accommodations. We leave in the morning, yeah?” They all three went inside the tent, each claiming a cot for the night, knowing that they’d be at the Botanical Gardens by midday tomorrow. They lay in the tent, under the dimly lit station lights, listening to the sounds of passersby, the guard patrols, and the soft, distant hum of people chattering. One of the men cleared his throat.

           “Commander Morozov?” He asked quietly.

           “Hmm?” The Commander responded, sounding half asleep.

           “I know I shouldn’t ask, Sir. But,” he drew in a breath, “you told us you’d let us know, when we got closer,” he fidgeted with his vest as he spoke, “but why exactly are we going to the Gardens?” The Commander shifted on his cot, resting his head on his arm as he yawned upward at the ceiling.

           “We have to investigate something.” His voice was calm, reassuring, almost playful, “But don’t worry about it!” He swiped his hand through the air, dismissing the foot soldier’s query, “This is all just reconnaissance, really. Go to sleep, chuvak!” He laughed, his jollity was contagious and the other two found themselves smiling into the darkness. Now their fears somewhat assuaged as they lay on their rented cots, full gear on, trying to sleep in a strange station, only one stop away from uncertainty.


	3. A True Comrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is completely unedited. if something is mega bad, let me know.

         They had joined up with the other recon team the next day, having journeyed from different points on the Red Line, this was easier then traveling together. The Commander had done a head count and debriefed everyone. Then they entered what had once been the Botanical Gardens. It was nothing but a burning, rubble filled wasteland. The Commander led the way, weapon out, unsure of what they’d find; sneaking around quietly, keeping chatter to a minimal whisper, and staying on guard was causing everyone to become nervous and taut. The slightest sound, the tiniest shift, and everyone’s hair stood on end. There had only been eight of them and now they were all gone, save for himself. He ran his hand over his skull, feeling the soft, ultra-short hair bristle against the palm of his hand.

         They hadn’t even found what they’d come to get. The Nazis had been there, waiting. It was such a shock, they hardly ever leave their line, what in the world were they doing there? _Why did they even care? Why were they interested?_ He raised his other hand to his skull as he slipped deeper into his own thoughts. His elbows resting on his knees as he sat on the bench in his holding cell. He knew he’d gotten away only because of his quick thinking and that ranger. He’d be a dead man if it weren’t for Artyom and he knew it. Though, sitting in this Nazi cell, listening to water drip somewhere far off in the distance, he might as well be a dead man. He knew they were going to come for him soon, he rubbed his hands over his head again out of anxiety. Crawling through that pipe, and getting caught, was the biggest mistake he’d made. A part of him whispered darkly that he should have sent Artyom through first, but he squashed that thought quickly. He jumped up from his seat, wiping his hands on his pants repeatedly, biting his bottom lip as he paced the cell. He could feel the cuts on his face, the blood dribbling out of his lip, instinctually, he licked it off with his tongue. The coppery metallic taste covering his tongue in an instant, making him grimace. He could hear the voices of the Reich soldiers echoing throughout the base, he knew they would come for him soon. He was starting to sweat under his heavy military gear. 

         He paced quicker through the cell, from one side to the other, deep in thought. The hard rubber soles of his boots crunching on the concrete beneath him. He couldn’t stop worrying about Artyom, he hoped he was alright, even though he was a Ranger of the Order. Even though, he hadn’t known him very long, there was just something about Artyom that Pavel liked, something about him that put Pavel at ease. Maybe it was how quiet and pensive Artyom was. Pavel had always been told he was brash and loud, though he personally preferred the word _charismatic_. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why he felt at ease with Artyom, but maybe that had something to do with it. He continued to pace, back and forth through the cell, his finger on his busted bottom lip. He could feel the warmth of his blood on his finger tip, but he paid it no heed. He was too terrified to be thinking of that right now. 

         As he paced his cell, he heard a scuffling in the ventilation pipe. From the never-ending darkness and cobwebs came the gloved hand of Artyom the Ranger, his fingers clinging to the metal grate of the old iron shaft.  Pavel broke himself out of his reverie to greet the other man who had so generously come to his rescue.

         “Artyom?! Shit! I know you wouldn’t abandon me! I knew it!” He drew in a sharp breath, gripping the bars of the ventilation shaft with both hands, “You’re a true comrade-I’m in your debt for life. Now, get me out of here and I’ll lead you home in no time!” He bit his bottom lip as he spoke, suddenly remembering how badly injured it was, tasting blood in his mouth once more.

         “Alright, just got to find a way, hang on as long as you can, okay?” Artyom’s voice was low and quiet, with no urgency whatsoever, but still it reverberated through the iron of the pipe. Pavel nodded, just as the door to the cell block creaked open; the heavy, old steel door sounding off that the guards were coming. Pavel forced himself to jump back down away from the ventilation shaft, still whispering harshly to Artyom, his breath strained along with his voice. His hands were sweating badly, he felt a hot sheen of cold moisture break out all over his body. He ran his tongue over his teeth, cursing inwardly and outwardly at his luck.

         “Fuck! Fuck, they’re coming for me!” His eyes skittered around the door, waiting for it to open and for those damned guards to come through and whisk him away to who knows where, “Gonna take me to the noose. Good luck, my friend-you’re my only hope now.” He half way whispered, his eyes watching Artyom as he shuffled his way back up into the ventilation shaft, back into the safety of darkness and out of the line of sight. The door to the cell itself creaked open slowly. The guard’s footsteps ringing out loud and clear on the concrete floor, a threatening presence looming closer with every step he took.

         “Come on, get your ass out here, you fucking commie rat.” He felt the guards hand on his neck, pushing him out of the cell. He was pushed off kilter, his head still swimming anyway from the beating he took earlier. He rolled his eyes in his head as he turned and sluggishly walked towards the hallway. The light streamed down onto his face, he squinted. There was another guard there with his weapon drawn, smiling to himself, watching the scene unfolding before him. They were all greatly enjoying this. 

          “Hands behind your back. Now.” The first guards voice was close to his ear, he could feel the spittle on the back of his neck. He complied, not wanting to be beaten anymore then he already had been. Walking through that corridor, not knowing where he was going, he didn’t pray to any God or to whatever deity he thought might listen. He prayed that his new friend could get him out, he prayed that Artyom was quiet and swift and able. Pavel knew that Artyom was his only light in the darkness now. He looked down at his boots as he walked, not wanting to look at his captors. His boots tapped on the concrete of the hall as the guards walked him to a large open room with plate glass windows all around. He audibly gulped when he saw two more guards, waiting, their arms crossed. They were chatting to themselves, only to turn around and smirk at him as they drew closer; one was fingering a set of metal knuckles as he stood. 

          All he could do was hope Artyom would find a way.


	4. A Bunker and a Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is kind of an...experiment in dialogue and characters and human relations in trying times. im also going for the slow burn, so keep that in mind while reading. 
> 
> also, this is completely unedited. if theres anything super glaringly awful and it hurts your vision orbs, let me know.

         It would be trite to say that his whole life flashed before his eyes, because well, it didn’t. After the stool was pulled out from under him everything blurred as he swung from the rope. His feet kicked wildly at the air, trying to find a foot hold on anything to give him a leg up. His vision was swimming, he could feel the rope burning into the skin of his neck. He was beginning to lose consciousness and darkness was creeping in on his vision. He could vaguely make out a shadow, a blurry shape, moving between the Nazis officers who had done this to him. He couldn’t focus. It hurt to breathe, was he even breathing though? He couldn’t tell. Everything was slowing down, his heartbeat was in his ears, his throat was throbbing, the rope was cutting into his skin, everything burned something awful, all over him.

         He choked.

         He hit the ground with a sickening thud.

         Shuddering himself awake and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, he sighed to himself, leaning against his hand slightly. The pressure on his tired eyes felt marvelous. Artyom was sleeping peacefully next to him, his back against the crumbling wall, his chin on his chest, arms folded casually across his stomach. Pavel had led them to a Ranger station he knew about. Long since abandoned but it was out of the way. The room was concrete, a desk covered in dust sat unused, books were piled up, some papers that someone had left behind, and was probably wondering whatever happened to them. The sounds of water dripping could be heard far off and away. No sounds of anything living though. Pavel strained his ears for a moment, Artyom’s light breathing was really the only sound. No scuffling, no snuffling, no sounds of footsteps. They were really and truly alone.

         Idly, Pavel realized that he and Artyom’s shoulders were touching. He pulled away, shrugging off the contact. His Father had taught him many things, one of them was to scorn human contact. He sniffed softly, his glance falling on Artyom’s sleeping form. Pavel knew they needed to prepare to leave when the sun went down. Traveling on the surface in the sunlight was dangerous, having lived in the tunnels their whole lives they could go blind in the sunlight. They’d reached this station just the day before as the sun was tinting the sky with incredible colors and the surface beasts were waking up to roam. Artyom had been dragging even then, his gun barely clasped in his hands. He had been quiet for some time, stumbling after Pavel as they made their way into the abandoned Rangers station. It had supposed to have been only a couple hours of rest, but now that had turned into a day of sleep. The Ranger had saved his life and thus, he didn’t have the heart to wake the Ranger quite yet.

        Pavel bit his bottom lip in thought, resting his head back against the wall once more, closing his eyes. He had almost died down there. If it hadn’t been for Artyom, a Ranger, his d’Artagnan. Pavel felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He folded his arms across his chest, hunkering down against the concrete wall. He opened his right eye, watching Artyom sleeping, he was taller than Pavel, his hands weren’t as rough.  His gear was in far better condition and without his helmet on, Pavel could see that he had scruffy, short, dark hair that stuck out at all angles and points. Pavel ran a hand absentmindedly over his skull, feeling the short-cropped hair on his head, remembering back when he had longer hair.

        Artyom stirred, stretching himself out, unfolding his feet and drawing in a breath through his nose. His clothing scratching on the concrete floor.

        “What time is it? How long have we been here?” He asked Pavel groggily, his eyes not open all the way, his vision still blurry with sleep. Pavel shrugged.

        “Don’t know chuvak, you’re the one with a watch.” Pavel gestured to Artyom’s watch on his left wrist, “We’ve been here a while though. By my estimation, probably a day.”

        “A day?! Why did you let me sleep that long?” He stretched again, his back loudly cracking, “ _Cyka_.” He muttered under his breath.

        “Nah you needed to sleep and so did I. Now we just wait for the sun to go down.” Pavel looked upwards at the aged concrete ceiling, indicating a small crack to the outside world above. Artyom looked up too. Sunlight was trickling in, just the smallest amount. He squinted at even that.

        “What do we do while we wait?” He asked.

        “Wait, chuvak. Talk. Fix up our weapons. See if we can find anything useful in here.” Pavel said as he stood up, grunting as he got to his feet. The concrete was old and the rubber of his boots slid on it under his weight.

        “Rangers haven’t been here in a long time, though.” Artyom said, as he too stood up, leaning his weapon against the wall that they’d been sleeping against, “There’s probably nothing here of any value.” He walked to the desk in the middle of the room, Pavel was rifling through the drawers, pulling out papers and devices left from before the bombs. The room had been an office of some sort at one time.

        “We might get lucky, chuvak!” Pavel said triumphantly as he held up two filters and some cigarettes.

        “Maybe there’s something to eat?” Artyom asked hopefully as he opened an old metal filing cabinet and a locker, looking for anything edible. Pavel began looking on the other side of the room, grabbing anything of any use: a lighter, another filter, a small tin of medical sticks.

        “Found some ration packets, that’s all though.” He tossed one to Pavel, who was now seated on the desk, his feet dangling over the edge, the heels of his boots hitting the hollow metal. Artyom leaned against the filing cabinet, opening his ration packet. The packaging was loud, it crinkled and echoed in the empty room. Distantly, they heard a long, low howl. They both stopped what they were doing, waiting to see if it would get closer. The sound carried out once more, this time farther away. Pavel went back to munching on his ration packet, obviously unconcerned with this new development.

        “Do you think it’s safe here?” Artyom asked quietly, biting into his ration. Pavel shook his head, speaking around his food, “It’s not safe anywhere, chuvak.” He looked up at Artyom then, his blue eyes were clear and determined, as though what he was saying was the complete truth and nothing else ever could refute it. Artyom nodded silently, defeated. He ate the last of his ration packet and threw the wrapper in the old waste bin to the right, out of habit. Pavel just threw his wrapper on the floor. They sat in silence for a bit, Pavel gazing up at the crack in the ceiling, the sunlight still pouring in, but obviously waning. He sighed. Artyom was the first to speak up.

        “Do you think,” he ran his tongue over his teeth before he spoke, “do you think we can live on the surface ever again?” Pavel leaned back, he shrugged, his hands in his lap.

        “I don’t know, I like to think we can, but, _tch_.” Artyom nodded absently as Pavel fell silent. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of water dripping, the groans of the concrete, the sounds of distant creatures mewling and growling far away on the surface. Artyom started cleaning off the bottom of his boots with a small rock he’d found; the scratching sound of rock on rubber permeated the room.

        “d’Artagnan,” Pavel said, breaking the stillness of the room, Artyom raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, “where are you from? I mean, I know you’re a Ranger, but what’s your home station?” Pavel squinted his eyes slightly, weaving his fingers together as he spoke, resting his hands on his lap, as if he were interviewing the other man for a job or a formal position of some kind.

        “VDNKh.” Artyom said quietly, never looking up from his meticulous boot cleaning. Pavel smiled, more to himself then to Artyom.

        “Where are you from?” Artyom asked, finally looking up from his boots, “Unless, you were born on the Red Line?” He crossed his legs, his elbow resting on his knee, and leaned back against the cool concrete wall of the bunker. Pavel shrugged, he began swinging his legs again.

        “I wasn’t _born_ on the Red Line, but I did grow up on it, yeah.” He smiled, his gaze falling on Artyom, resting there a bit too long. Artyom’s features were soft. Though, he didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, Pavel’s lingering gaze.

        “Were you born before the bombs fell?” Artyom asked, as though this was all normal, tea time conversation. Pavel nodded.

        “Yeah, I was five when the bombs fell. We ran into the nearest metro station.” He shrugged, “That just happened to be Red before long.” Pavel tilted his head slightly to the left as he spoke, his voice had taken on a gentle, quiet quality that Artyom took notice of, but said nothing. He only nodded his understanding. The rooms silence pervaded once again. Artyom went back to digging at the soles of his boots and Pavel was lost in his thoughts.

        “I don’t remember my Mother.” Artyom offered up to the silence, breaking it ever so tenderly, “She died when I was very young. I don’t even remember her face.” He looked up from his boots then, shrugging. Pavel raised his eyebrows at this personal admission, his legs kept swinging over the edge of the desk he was sitting on and his fingers stayed woven together in his lap. He could feel something tugging at him, inside. It was insistent. He opened his mouth before his brain caught up.

        “I don’t remember my Mother either, chuvak.” He laughed, a smile spreading across his features, as though he couldn’t believe he’d said that.

        “Did you come to the metro with her? Or did she…” Artyom’s voice trailed off. They both knew why.

        “No, I came to the metro with my Father.” Pavel’s voice lowered, his eyes dropping down for a moment to his boots. He bit his bottom lip, hard, then released it again. His teeth disappearing back into his mouth just as quickly as they had appeared. Pavel felt the silence creeping back in on them. This time it was heavier somehow. It seemed to linger, like it was pushing down on the both of them, trapped in the bunker with them.

        “My Father is still at VDNKh.” Artyom’s voice was even and tight.

        “My Father is dead.” Pavel said very matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest.

        “I’m sorry,” Artyom said quietly. Pavel shook his head, jumping down from the desk he’d been seated on for so long. His boots scuffing on the concrete.

        “Don’t be, chuvak! Death happens, it’s part of life in the metro, right?” He smiled, flashing Artyom a broad grin. He peered upwards at the crack in the ceiling, the sun must have been very low, the light shining through was deep hues of purple and red. Pavel drew in a breath and went over to the filters that they’d found earlier, screwing one onto his gas mask.

        “Ready, my Ranger? Time to go top!” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he put his gas mask on, then his hat over the plastic straps, they rubbed against his skull uncomfortably. Artyom nodded and put his own mask on, setting his watch. He stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders as he did so. He readied his weapon and nodded at Pavel, who led the way out the door of the hidden bunker and up into lands that were no longer theirs.


End file.
